


A Little Help

by Miajah



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, M/M, Oral Sex, Temerian camp, Trolls, You Can Tell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-05
Updated: 2018-06-05
Packaged: 2019-05-18 13:53:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14854044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miajah/pseuds/Miajah
Summary: Geralt had known Roche for a long time, long enough to know the man was grumpy, irritable, frustrating and coldly blunt in his opinions. Not to mention damned stubborn and unshakable when he got an idea in his head. But there was something to be said about the way the man was fiercely loyal, whether it be to dead kings, a lost country or even a fool Witcher that clung to him like his own heartbeat depended on it.





	A Little Help

**Author's Note:**

> The world needs more Roche/Geralt, I will not apologize.  
> ...well I will, but only once.

It was with a lot of pain that he managed to open his eyes, the bright light blinding him in waves from what must have been the shadows of the swaying branches above him, the crisp air and distant birdsong telling him that he was outside lying on his back.

Geralt turned his head to the side and felt the vibrations of the golem that stomped away from him, he could focus on a few grains of sand jumping on a rock beside him before his vision began to blur again. He tried to get up, to move to the side, but his left arm was refusing to move along with the fingers of his right hand, the pain in his torso also warning him to move as little as possible.

It took a moment to hear someone drawing a wheezing breath and another to realise it was coming from himself at which point he noticed the golem had gone.

“Fuck,” he gasped. He had come to this forest following a contract, the local village had people going missing steadily over the last couple of months, he had thought a werewolf had been responsible at first but he couldn’t find tracks or evidence of a body being fed upon. Stumbling upon the golem meant it was more likely that a mage were behind the disappearances but that information didn’t help him much while he was lying broken in the dirt.

Minutes, possibly hours, passed and Geralt remained on the ground, too exhausted and pained to move before he felt heavy footsteps on the ground and heard the rumblings of voices.

“Stompy-rock gone.” The voice was deep, masculine and lacked higher intelligence; trolls.

“Don’t like stompy-rock.” The second was female and Geralt inwardly swore. Trolls weren’t inherently violent creatures even if they could snap a human’s neck with a slap, but when a mated pair travelled together the male instinctively tried to provide food for the female as often as possible and they sure as shit weren’t above eating humans. Or Witchers.

“Look.” The male said and walked to Geralt, its grey skin had markings of red mud and it wore a horse skull around its neck like a pendant. “Humee, we eat it.”

“Dead humee, not good eat. Blech.” The female grumbled as it picked up the shattered remnants of a crate and threw it across the small clearing.

“It live.” The male poked Geralt harshly in the chest and he couldn’t help but let out a pained grunt. The noise drew the attention of the female who approached with curiosity, she was also covered in red mud markings, the kind of mud that came from the river not too far from where the golem was heading.

“Not good eating.” Geralt said to them and the male simply scratched its belly. “Don’t eat humee.”

“But taste good.” The male said simply and the female nodded with a grunt.

“I can help you with stompy-rock.” Geralt said and lifted his head as if looking for the golem. “Can stop the bad humee near your nest.”

“Bad humee chase us, hurt us with fire.” The female said angrily and stomped, kicking dirt into Geralt’s face. He grimaced before rolling his head to look at the trolls properly.

“I can kill the bad humee, I’m a Witcher.” Geralt bargained and watched as the male looked to the female for a decision.

“Witchy broken.” The female shook her head and nudged Geralt’s arm so it flared in pain, Geralt tried to keep calm and show he wasn’t in agony, he needed to convince the trolls not to eat him.

“Take me to the village and I will get better,” Geralt tried to keep his words simple, “then I’ll come and kill the bad humee and you can have your nest back.” The male grunted low in his throat.

“And the stompy-rock.” It demanded, Geralt didn’t bother explaining that the golem was likely summoned by the mage and would disappear if the mage died.

“And the stompy-rock,” Geralt agreed and the trolls began to nod vigorously and grunting in affirmation. “Take me to the village.”

“Vill-age?” Geralt huffed at their misunderstanding, not that it was their fault – he would prefer trolls stayed away from humans as much as possible but it did make communication taxing when he was lying in agony.

“Lots of humees.” Geralt said and the female nodded and thwacked the male’s meaty arm with her fist.

“Mean blue humees.” She said before stepping forward and with a surprising amount of care picked up Geralt and cradled him against her. It still hurt like hell and the troll stank to the heavens but he wasn’t being eaten. The male surged forward as the female followed with ease despite carrying a full grown man still in his armour, they headed away from the clearing and Geralt somehow, despite all the painful jostling, passed out.

 

The sensation of falling woke Geralt up again before he hit the ground hard, he groaned in pain and swore before looking up to see the two trolls standing either side of him, they were looking out to an unkempt road and nervously judging their surroundings.

“What’s wrong?” Geralt rasped and the female troll hummed uncertainly.

“Don’t like humees, don’t like humee nests.” She grumbled before pointing out at a small clearing where Geralt could barely see smoke rising over the undergrowth.

“Get their attention.” Geralt prompted, at this point even if they were bandits he’d rather have his throat cut than die from starvation alone in a forest or be eaten by the trolls. The female hummed uncertainly as the male bent over and picked up a large rock, bigger than a human’s head. With a loud, bellowing laugh he hurled the rock at the campfire, striking it true and sending embers flying.

Geralt heard shouts and swearing and the two trolls turned and ran into the thickness of the forest laughing manically as human footprints crossed the road and stopped at the thick undergrowth.

“What the fuck was that?” A man said and walked closer, stopping as he reached the bush Geralt was lying behind. “Well I’ll be damned.”

Geralt painfully rolled his head and saw the chainmail of a soldier, the gambeson he wore a deep blue with three white symbols on it. Temerians.

“Thank fuck,” Geralt swore and drew in a ragged breath as more men approached. “My name is Geralt of Rivia, I know Vernon Roche – I need a little help.”

 

In true soldier fashion the troops wasted little time in fashioning a stretcher and carefully rolling Geralt onto it, hiking up the road for a couple of hours Geralt managed to fall asleep again before being woken by the bellowing of a permanently irate commander.

“What the fuck are you doing bringing people to our camp?” Vernon Roche was approaching like an oncoming storm, Geralt couldn’t see him but could hear the anger in his steps. He could picture him perfectly in the long blue gambeson and the damned chaperon he refused to take off. “Its called a ploughing hideout for a reason!”

“He said he knew you, sir!” The soldier at the head of the stretcher explained quickly. “Said he needed a little help.”

“And I suppose if the entire Nifgaardian army said they knew me you’d bring them here too?” Roche spat and rounded the soldier to see Geralt lying with a painfully amused expression. The commander took a moment to look the Witcher over before giving him an incredulous look that was no less stern. “A _little_ help, was it Geralt?”

“A tad.” Geralt chuckled at his own humour before the pain wracked through him and he groaned, Roche’s hand pressed to the Witcher’s chest to steady him before he nodded to the soldier.

“Place him in my study and get the healer.” Roche ordered and the soldiers complied without hesitation, taking Geralt into the concealed cave that the Temerians were using as a base camp.

 

Roche’s study was warm, a couple of braziers burning to keep away the late autumn chill. The Commander’s desk was in the middle, large map strewn out with carved rock markers on certain locations, rolls of parchment and inkwells to the side. On the far side was an armour stand and sword rack with a wooden target hanging on the wall and a couple of daggers sticking out of the centre. A perfectly tidy bed was tucked next to a door which opened to a small room which had a low bed and a grate in the rocky ceiling that let in a beam of light.

Geralt moved himself onto the bed with assistance from the soldiers who left quickly to return to their post and a short, balding man entered wearing an apron and carrying a wooden box of surgical tools; the healer. Behind him Roche entered the room and shut the door to give them privacy before taking up a small stool and perching beside Geralt who was watching the healer set out the tools with trepidation.

“What happened?” Roche was quick to ask, to get all the information he needed, but surprisingly he had a hint of concern to his voice.

“I was tracking a contract in the forest, stumbled upon a golem,” Geralt said as the healer picked up his right arm and began testing the bones, noting each time Geralt grunted in pain. “Damned thing knocked me back, hit me while I was down – _fuck_.” He gritted his teeth and the healer moved onto the next bone, eliciting a similar reaction from the Witcher. “Some trolls found me, I bargained them to take me to the nearest humans in exchange for my help to reclaim their nest later.”

“You’re lucky it was us and not someone who’d just kill you.” Roche admonished him and Geralt let out a dry laugh as the healer moved onto his other arm.

“Better than being eaten by Trolls, or starving to death in the forest.” Geralt muttered bitterly. He had no illusions about his lifestyle, he knew it would come to a bloody end one way or another. Roche nodded once, he understood, and that understanding came from having to make terrible decisions on a daily basis.

“Sir,” the healer interrupted and earned a glare from Roche, “His right hand is broken in multiple places, his left arm is also broken. By the way he is breathing I believe his ribs are damaged but I’ll need to get his armour off to determine that.”

“Right.” Roche said and stood, opening the door and hollering into the next room. “ _Ves!_ Get in here.” A moment later Ves sauntered in and gave Geralt a welcoming half-smile, her shirt still open down to her navel despite the chill in the air.

“Ves.” Geralt greeted and she nodded to him, stepping up to help the healer unbuckle Geralt’s armour without needing the order.

“Your bones are starting to heal wrong, we’ll need to set them before you end up deformed. How long since the injury?” The healer asked.

“A day?” Geralt guessed, he had no way of knowing how long he had been unconscious for. The Healer gave him a queer look. “Witchers heal fast.”

“Clearly. Well let’s get this done before I have to break all your bones again.” The healer used two hands to put pressure on his right hand, a bone snapping back into alignment loudly as Geralt growled and writhed beneath Ves’ still working hands. A moment later the healer did the same to his pinky finger and Geralt swore.

Ves opened the front of his armour and carefully peeled the gambeson away, being mindful of his arms but still not being able to make the experience pain free or even just mildly uncomfortable, the white linen undershirt was cut away for the sake of simplicity and Ves let out a low whistle but Geralt doubted it was out of appreciation.

“Something put you through your paces huh?” She said and Geralt raised his head to see his torso covered in large, colourful bruises. The healer put his cold hands on Geralt’s ribs and started prodding them without hesitation.

“No broken ribs,” the healer confirmed, “but I doubt you’ll be wandering far with this bruising.”

A voice outside of the room called for Roche’s attention and he walked out only to return a moment later with a clay cup full of steaming liquid, placing it in Ves’ hands Roche perched on the edge of the bed by Geralt’s head before sliding his arms beneath the Witcher’s shoulders and manoeuvring the man to lay with his back against his chest.

Wordlessly Roche gestured for the cup again, Ves handing it over with a curious expression which was ignored and held it to Geralt’s mouth. Geralt smelt the liquid which was possibly worse than the troll that carried him and rolled his head back and away, not caring that it was Roche’s shoulder that was supporting it.

“I know, it smells worse than ghoul’s arsehole,” Roche said quietly, not in his usual gruff manner. “But setting that arm is going to be a lot worse without it, not to mention everything else my oh-so-delicate healer needs to do.” Geralt groaned in disgust before lifting his head again, his broken hand automatically raising to take the cup.

“No,” Roche said firmly as Geralt’s hand fell onto his own stomach, “let me.” Geralt drank steadily as Roche put the cup to his lips, trying not to inhale the stench as he did. With a cough Geralt finished and the cup was cast aside but Roche didn’t move away and as the terrible tea slowly took affect Geralt felt his head grow heavy and fall back onto the Temerian’s shoulder, deep, languid laughter escaping his lips as Roche held him upright and the healer set to work on his arm.

 

The room was warm as he steadily blinked away exhaustion and took note of his situation. Still in the alcove off Roche’s study on the small bed, still shirtless and now only in his under garment he was tucked under a woollen blanket that was irritating as soon as he thought about it being so. The lumpy pillow beneath his head rustled with movement and his right hand was bandaged and splinted as was his left arm.

“Well this isn’t going to be annoying at all.” He muttered to himself in regards to the bandages, sure he’s had worse injuries but he’d rarely been made useless before. One limb broken or the other, never both.

“You’re awake.” Ves’ voice came from the foot of his bed and Geralt lifted his head to see her sitting on the stool with a book in hand. “About time, you’ve been asleep since yesterday.”

“You been there the whole time?” He asked and she marked her book with a strip of ribbon before closing it and standing.

“Sure have,” She approached a bottle that was sitting on the ground by the door and picked it up, giving it a good shake before meandering back over and perching on the side of the bed. “Roche and I have been having words of late, I said something he took offence to and he thought I’d be better suited to babysitting duties until you were able to fend for yourself again.”

“What’s with the bottle? Vodka?” He asked with a hint of hope and she huffed a laugh and shook her head.

“Better, this stuff will kill the pain but generally make you drowsy. Make sure you don’t have more than a few mouthfuls though, it’ll kill you if you overdo it.” She gestured for him to sit up and he managed to do so with barely a whimper, the bruises on his body more than halfway healed. Uncorking the bottle she held it to his lips and he gave her a suspicious expression before relenting and drinking from the bottle.

“Let this stuff settle in your system and I’ll grab you some food. Whenever you need to use the latrine let me know and I’ll take you out but don’t expect much else. And if you experience any side effects of the medicine keep it to yourself.” Ves stood and forced the cork back into the bottle, placing it on the ground before standing and giving Geralt a little wave before leaving the room.

“Wait,” Geralt called out, “What side effects?” Ves either didn’t hear him or ignored him and he let out a frustrated huff, settling back on the bed while trying not to injure himself further.

 

Geralt awoke hot and feverish in the middle of the night, sweat running down his neck he used his legs to pull down the woollen blanket. He knew it was supposed to be cold in this forest at night, he wasn’t breathing steam yet but the logical part of his brain said it was too damn cold to take off the blankets, the louder and reckless part of his brain was screaming to cool down by any means possible.

With an audible groan he rolled onto his stomach, gingerly reaching his injured limbs above his head where he came upon another problem. He was hard, and considering how sensitive and uncomfortable he was it was likely some time since he became that way.

“Fuck.” He said and rolled his forehead against the pillow. He was nearing a century old and thought he was past waking up bothered in the middle of the night, but for whatever reason his dick decided he was young again. Rolling his hips against the straw mattress he let out a breathy, frustrated moan at the slightly-pleasurable friction but his undergarments were restricting. Reaching down to palm himself he was quickly reminded of the state of his hand, swearing he rolled back onto his side and wondered if he could just go back to sleep, but a relentless, longing ache hinted otherwise.

A quiet knock on the door and Geralt shifted onto his side, his back to the entry, something his Witcher training screamed at him not to do but there were only a few people who would come into the room and if they wanted to do him harm they wouldn’t have knocked. Candlelight softly illuminated the room and the door shut behind the visitor who didn’t move further.

“Geralt?” Roche called softly before moving closer, placing the candle on the stool that was out of reach of Geralt.

“What is it?” Geralt rasped, he looked over his shoulder but kept his body turned away.

“You’re making sounds, pained ones,” he reached out and placed a calloused, bare hand on Geralt’s shoulder, sighing heavily when he discovered the fever. “Damn it, you need to stay covered.”

“I’ll be fine.” Geralt protested gruffly and curled in on himself, Roche leaned forward and put both hands on his torso with the intention of rolling the Witcher over and pulling the blanket back up. The man’s hands were cool on Geralt’s skin and the Witcher couldn’t help the small moan that escaped his throat, the sound causing Roche to pause in his actions and, to Geralt’s surprise, making his heartbeat speed up.

“It’s the tonic,” Roche said hesitantly before grabbing the blanket that sat low on Geralt’s hips and carefully pulling it back up to cover his chest. “It’s great for pain but unfortunately it’s also an aphrodisiac, a strong one. Ves should have warned you.”

“She told me to keep it to myself,” Geralt huffed a laugh, “I guess she told me in her own way.”

Roche hummed uncertainly and touched at Geralt’s forehead once more, trying to get a sense of his fever as Geralt uselessly chased the coolness of Roche’s hand.

“I’ll be fine,” Geralt rasped, despite his head craning back in an attempt to reach more of Roche’s skin and baring his throat in an uncharacteristically way. “Just need to sleep.”

“Very well,” Roche said and withdrew his hand as the Witcher let out a sigh of discontent. Stepping back Roche left the room, giving one last look at the man on the bed before closing the door softly.

 

Sleep, it seemed, was the last thing Geralt was going to be graced with. His skin was on fire, crawling with sensitivity and his muscles ached as if they were overstretched and about to snap. He openly cursed the tonic and whatever caused the fever, his metabolism and immune system usually working quickly to dispel any ailments.

The room was quickly becoming stuffy despite the walls being made of stone and the steam coming from the heat of his breath told him that the temperature had actually fallen. Despite this his mind was only focusing on the unwelcome sensations of the itching wool blanket, the dogging exhaustion and the pleasant if frustrating friction on the part of him he was trying to ignore. Rolling to the side his muscles complained as he stood and tried to find a way out to the cold night air.

The door posed a problem as he slumped heavily onto the doorframe, his broken hand pawing feebly at the handle and he let out a long, frustrated sigh that ended in an audible growl. He slid to lean against the wood of the door and let his forehead hit it with a dull thud – he was hoping to open it with his body weight somehow but his foggy mind barely comprehended that he was likely trying to force the door the wrong way.

“Geralt?” Roche’s soft voice came from beyond the door, somewhat sleepy and curious, “What are you doing to the door?”

“Roche,” Geralt called breathily and stepped back as the door opened gently. Roche stepped inside and gave Geralt a queer look, he was half dressed, in his trousers only, and his light brown hair was tousled from sleep. Geralt fixated on the mop of hair, hardly believing that he was seeing the Commander without his trademark chaperon.

“The hell are you doing?” Roche gruffed and stepped to Geralt just as the Witcher’s legs gave way with a grunt, the Commander catching Geralt’s heavy body and pulling him in to support his weight. Geralt clutched onto Roche uselessly, groaning as he was pulled into the man’s body and the sensation of his cool chest against his own fevered one sent shocks of desire along his skin.

“Fuck,” Geralt sighed as he chased the sensation, renewed strength building in him as he pressed to Roche and crowded him against the wall. Roche, who was never short on voicing his unhappiness, stayed strangely quiet.

“I need-” Geralt groaned, his voice muffled as he pressed his face into the crook of the other man’s neck, Roche’s hand coming up automatically and gripping at Geralt’s hair as if to pull him away, “need-”

“Tell me,” Roche insisted, his voice low and rasping, hand still tight in Geralt’s hair without moving to pull him away. Geralt paused for a moment, his mind providing a moment of clarity by posing the question of if he was acting this way because of the tonic or the fever or both, or if his apparent illness was just an excuse to act on long buried notions.

He had known Roche for a long time, long enough to know the man was grumpy, irritable, frustrating and coldly blunt in his opinions. Not to mention damned stubborn and unshakable when he got an idea in his head. But there was something to be said about the way the man was fiercely loyal, whether it be to dead kings, a lost country or even a fool Witcher that clung to him like his own heartbeat depended on it.

Geralt breathed deep of the lingering scent of woodsmoke and metal that seemed to live on the man’s skin, it brought a sense of comfort and contentment to the Witcher, but also a thrill of something more than companionship. Geralt knew exactly what he needed.

“You,” Geralt half growled as his bandaged hand slid down Roche’s waist, pressing firm as if the man was liable to disappear. “Roche, I need you-” the Commander’s grip tightened and with a small moan Geralt’s head was pulled back, forcing the Witcher to meet the other man’s eyes.

“Not if it’s just that fever talking,” Roche said barely above a whisper, his lips so close Geralt could feel the punch of breath on each word. “Not if you don’t mean-” Roche’s sentence was cut short by Geralt closing the distance between them, his lips crushing against the Temerian’s as he moaned low from his throat. A slight movement, the smallest give in Roche’s resolve and Geralt’s tongue slipped between his lips to slide along Roche’s, the sensation of the wet heat plaguing Geralt’s mind as he pressed further.

A quick step and Geralt’s back was pressed roughly against the stone wall, Roche’s thigh slipping between the Witcher’s legs to grind against his aching erection. Geralt let out a long, loud moan at the contact, relief washing over him after hours of neglect and Roche swore, reaching out to push the door closed with a thud.

Roche’s hands seemed to be everywhere at once, running over fevered skin, tangling in white hair, tugging wantonly at clothing, while Geralt’s were damn near useless, only one hooking over Roche’s shoulder to pull him forward and hold him to his chest, afraid he would regret his decision and flee at any moment.

Geralt tried to focus and run his hand along the toned planes of Roche’s stomach but ineffectively brushed against him, with a smile and a chuckle Roche carefully pushed Geralt’s broken arm to the side, before reassuring him between kisses.

“Let me look after you,” Roche sighed against Geralt’s neck before setting his teeth to his skin, sucking lightly as Geralt arched and keened with a growl low in his throat. Roche reached down between them, his hand slipping beneath Geralt’s undergarment to palm at heated flesh, they both groaned, Geralt at the sudden pleasure of Roche’s calloused hand and Roche at the feel of the Witcher.

Roche stroked him gently but with purpose, more than aware of Geralt’s already heightened senses being pushed to their limit, the man’s breath coming sharper and harder with each stroke.

“Can you hold yourself up?” Roche rasped and Geralt grunted uncertainly, pulling back from the Commander and leaning heavily on the wall. Roche gave him one last quick kiss before shoving Geralt’s remaining clothing down to rest at his thighs, letting Geralt’s cock stand proudly in the cool air.

Roche licked and bit his way down Geralt’s chest and stomach, one large hand pressed flat to the Witcher’s chest to help him stay upright, and knelt before the man. Slow, open kisses were pressed along Geralt’s stomach, thighs and hips until he keened and let out a breathy plea.

“Please, Roche,” he groaned and Roche flicked his eyes up to watch the man struggle above him before licking a thick stripe from base to tip, collecting the heavy bead of pre cum that had gathered. Geralt’s cock twitched on his tongue and Roche wrapped his free hand around it, giving a tight stroke before moving his attention to Geralt’s balls.

Geralt’s legs were shaking mercilessly by the time Roche swallowed his shaft, his throat tight and wet as he tried to swallow him down further. Geralt rested his bandaged hand against Roche’s head and felt the man moan around him, the vibrations enough to make him roll his hips wantonly as he vocalised his pleasure.

Roche bobbed his head, cheeks concaving as he sucked with his hand stroking tight. Geralt lost the rhythm of his movements as his weak thrusts began to stagger and his breath came sharper and stuttered.

“Roche-” Geralt warned, his hand pushing weakly at the man who looked up with lustful eyes and sucked just that bit harder.

Geralt came with a growl through clenched teeth, hips locking in place as he emptied himself into Roche’s throat, he could feel him swallow reflexively, work to coax as much as possible from the trembling man.

Heart hammering Geralt let out a long sigh and leaned forward to be caught by Roche as he stood, a quick fix of clothing and Geralt was being helped to the bed and set down in the middle of it, sitting next to him Roche cleared his throat.

“You should be able to sleep now,” Roche said almost awkwardly and Geralt gave him an incredulous expression before leaning in tentatively and planting a somewhat chaste kiss on Roche’s lips.

Geralt was tired, exhausted, but as soon as a tiny moan left Roche’s throat Geralt pushed Roche down to lie on his back, eager to hear more of those sounds from the usually stony commander. On his knees Geralt loomed above Roche, tongue working from his neck to lave across a nipple, a litany of curses and gasps and moans falling from Roche’s lips.

Without thinking Geralt reached down between them, relying on his core muscles to keep him from putting all his weight on the man below. He felt the effect he was having on the commander and palmed at the hardness he found, eliciting breathy words from Roche that Geralt couldn’t quite understand. Impatiently he tried to work at the fastenings of the trousers, swearing when pain twinged in his hand.

“ _Pants,_ Roche,” Geralt demanded and Roche reached down awkwardly, one hand on the back of Geralt’s head as he continued to prey on Roche’s nipple and the other hand jerking his trousers open and pushing them down as much as possible.

Geralt gave no preamble, no warning or teasing before he moved down and took Roche into his mouth, struggling a little with his bandaged hand until Roche gripped himself at the base of his cock to help and guided Geralt down with a tight grip of his hair.

Geralt was all tongue and pressure, making filthy sounds as Roche fucked up into his mouth and encouraged the Witcher to take more and more, his cock hitting the back of Geralt’s throat relentlessly.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Roche moaned, “feels good.”

Geralt moaned in response and Roche tensed, curling up as he forced Geralt’s head down. Barely a few thrusts into the tight, wet mouth and Roche was losing his concentration, hips jerking as his hands trembled.

 _“Geralt-_ ” He cried out and pulled the Witcher up, craning his head towards him as Roche gripped himself tight and came with a groan, rivulets of white landing on Geralt’s cheekbone before he caught the rest in his mouth, swallowing without hesitation. Roche’s breath came fast as he watched Geralt, the sight of him obscene enough to make Roche curse before he collapsed back onto the bed with a smile.

 

Geralt awoke just before dawn, comfortable and warm with someone at his back. A groan and he rolled to see Roche stirring, pushing himself up on his arm to look over the Witcher hungrily.

“Good morning,” Roche said in a deep, sleep ridden voice before leaning down to kiss Geralt deeply, taking his time to enjoy the feel of unexpectedly soft lips and the rasp of stubble.

Voices wafted down from the open grate above them, soldiers passing by on their patrol and Roche sighed, pressing his forehead to Geralt’s as his thumb stroked the other man’s jaw.

“I- should go. Before any of them come to find me.” Roche said coldly and with a touch of disappointment, moving easily to stand and stretch his limbs with a pop of joints.

“I’ll be gone today,” Geralt said as he wiggled his still bandaged hand, his bones mostly healed, “got a promise to some trolls I got to follow through on.”

“Will you be back?” Roche asked suddenly, his hand on the door handle as he looked down to the side and waited patiently for the answer.

“I’m supposed to be heading to Novigrad,” Geralt said offhandedly and the Temerian let out a huff as he nodded. “But, I’m sure I’ll find my way back soon enough.”

“I certainly hope so,” Roche spoke as if it were an order, promptly shutting the door behind himself as Geralt grinned.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't have a Beta so if there are mistakes just point them out to me!
> 
> This will be a one shot, even though I always say that and end up writing 30 chapters. BUT if you have any prompts let me know in the comments. :)


End file.
